I can’t sit here and pretend I’m seeing a person
Who’s
Not you: the genuine spell, the real self-starter,
The Devil’s in my hands
In the drag, on my forked tongue
That’s full of emotion;
Do I play with his fire? Do I dance with his devils?
I’m putting my words through Hell, darling
To get to Paradise.
A lunch-moneyed fist pulls fame towards you
I walk
With something that’s significant of
Romantica
And so important in the first draft
So raw.